


Spiraling

by levitating



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: Darth Imperius - Freeform, Depression, Imperius cries a lot, Lana is the real mvp, M/M, crisis on umbara, traitor arc angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:06:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24000292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levitating/pseuds/levitating
Summary: Snippets of the commander, newly betrayed, struggling to cope.
Relationships: Theron Shan/Male Sith Inquisitor, Theron Shan/Original Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	1. Betrayed

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote these snippets just after Umbara’s release, abandoned it, and am now posting it with minimal proofreading or editing. This is just a steaming heap of angsty garbage. Sorry.

The wreckage, all lit up in the most vibrant of colors, flames dancing in various hues of oranges and blues, might have been a rather mesmerizing sight in any other occasion. That is, if it weren’t for the fact that he’d just leapt from it, and he’d just witnessed the man that was quite possibly the love of his life attempt to kill him.  
There was a god awful wailing noise, seemingly that of a dying animal, and an agonizing sting in his right arm, spiking up from his wrist to the back of his neck. It felt as if his very skin was being flayed off the bone, and as he struggled to push himself up from the dirt, he realized that the howling was him. A pair of arms hooked underneath his armpits, hoisting him to his feet with a sickening crack - oh, god, that was also him - and yet another high pitched, animalistic whine of pain. He staggered back into his helper.  
“Commander,” Lana panted, clasping his shoulders much too harshly to steady him, “Are you alright?”  
That was, frankly, the most ridiculous question he’d ever been asked. The planet felt like it was spinning and his head must’ve been too, the grass around them was set ablaze, shards of metal had embedded themselves into the chinks of his armor, and his left arm dangled limply like a ragdoll’s. Evaan took a sharp breath, trying to steady his breathing and his knees, while still struggling to assess the rubble. “I’m...” He exhaled, not entirely sure where that sentence had been going.  
Before he had a chance to figure it out, she was looking him over, circling him like a nexu to her prey as she inspected the severity of his wounds. The moment her gaze fell upon his left side, she recoiled in what looked to be disgust. He couldn’t help but peek down at it. The sight alone made him wince, the pain seeming to intensify as he looked over his arm. While he couldn’t see the bruises that were certainly forming beneath his armor, his shoulder seemed rather mangled, his arm popped out of socket, an unsightly bump presenting itself through his tattered robes. His lips curled into a scowl.  
“We’re going to have to do something about that, you know.” Her words unsettled him more than the wound itself did. As they met eyes, he found absolute resolve. She was clearly prepared for his attempts to sway her from touching him. He doesn’t like this. “Lie down.”  
“Just stick a kolto patch on it and I’ll be fine.” His voice wavered. Lana seemed wholly unconvinced, kneeling and motioning for him to follow. Resigned, he settles down onto the grass, lying back and shutting his eyes. Though she clearly intended to be gentle, even the slightest touch as her hands settled on him - one on his forearm, another around the crook of his elbow - sent a sudden, forceful pang of pain through his skin.  
Her grip tightened. “On the count of three,” She instructed, “One.”  
He got the gist that he was meant to count with her, yet, he had no chance. Before he even managed the word two, she snapped his shoulder back into place. He can’t help the ear-piercing yelp he lets out, nails digging into her hand as a jolt of electricity slips from his palm, her entire body tensing and then giving a violent shiver. “You,” He began, chest heaving with every breath as he worked to ignore the searing pain seeping through every inch of his limb, “You said - on the count of three. That was the count of one.”  
“I think you would’ve been ill-prepared regardless of whether I waited or not.” Lana was much too casual, shrugging away his concerns and flexing the hand he’d shocked and all but crushed in the midst of his justified - but unexpected - outburst. “This feels much better, yes?” She rises, outstretching a hand to help him to his feet. He accepts her assistance, albeit cautiously, cradling his marred arm against his side as if the air alone would further maim it.  
“No,” He spat back. As he turns his back to her, he can sense her exasperation. A glimmer of guilt passes through him - she’s only trying to help, after all - but the feeling is fleeting, quickly overwhelmed by the pain. Grimacing, he considers the way ahead.  
The landscape pans out before them, the light of the luminous plants being swallowed up by the smoke that drifts over the horizon. The onyx sky has been tainted by shades of grey, the stars cloaked by ash. At the very least, the darkness would cover their trek, and they didn’t have to worry about nightfall. In the midst of admiring the scenery, Evaan almost forgets why they’ve come. Almost.  
“We’ve lingered here too long already,” Lana interrupts, “Theron can’t be too far ahead.”  
Theron.  
Instantly, he finds himself struggling to restrain his thoughts. Before he can fight it, he’s recalling the memories of the way his love had paced before the forcefield like a madman, ranting and raving about Evaan’s failure. _You know I love you, but this is bigger than_ \- Evaan chokes, the burn in his throat reminding him he’s forgotten to breathe. Lana was staring at him, mouthing something he couldn’t quite hear and reaching out a hand to place upon his right shoulder, rubbing back and forth as if she was trying to soothe a frightened child.  
“Take a deep breath,” She urges him. He listens, biting back the anger and the anguish that swells within him, threatening to boil over like an unattended pot. There’s still time, he reminds himself. There’s time to find him and bring him home. To get an explanation, to make things right.  
With renewed vigor, he strides forward.


	2. Failure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is very short, I’m just adding the different segments as I edit them

As the tank collapses, so does he. Every inch of his body strains against even the slightest movement, the burns on his skin and the aches of his limbs smothering him. Theron was gone. He’d escaped, left Evaan to struggle against not only a machine that was hellbent on his demise, but also a swarm of soldiers and force users. If it weren’t for Lana’s support, he was certain he would’ve fallen in the midst of the battle.  
Even now, as she nurses her own wounds, she bends down to hoist him to his feet, her touch remarkably tender around his battered arm. “I’ll signal for a shuttle.” He gives a meek nod. He wants to say something, to thank her, to apologize for being deadweight, but no words come out. After a long moment, he stops trying. It’s here, waiting for the shuttle, that he decides to attempt to wrap his head around the mess of a situation they’d found themselves in. It’s here, at this very moment, that everything comes crashing down on him.  
They’re returning to Odessen, empty handed. He’s left to pick up the pieces of not only the mission, but himself. His advisor - his lover - had been plotting against him for months. In their time together, Evaan had laid his insecurities bare, exposed every bit of his being to Theron, even prior to the alliance’s construction. They’d had history that spanned back to his time in the empire, the revanite crisis. And all of their history had been thrown away.  
He was spiraling, his stomach beginning to twist with nausea and a pressure swelling in his skull. As Lana speaks into her comm, he turns, reaching his right hand out to steady himself on the remains of the tank, only to press his palm against scalding, overheated metal. Evaan cries out in pain, yanking his hand back and flapping it in the air wildly, his body in the midst of deciding which instinct is the proper one. It decides, and in a haze of blind rage, he draws the fist back, and slams it directly back into the same exact spot he’d just touched.  
In all honesty, he wasn’t sure what he expected the outcome to be. Clearly, he’d realized the metal wouldn’t yield to his superior force and cower, begging for his forgiveness. However, he hadn’t anticipated the way his bones would crack, pain searing through his knuckles and down his hand as a strangled, miserable wail erupts from his throat. “Commander!” Lana exclaims, whipping around and seizing his wrist in her hand, “What in the galaxy are you doing?”  
They meet eyes. She’s looking for an explanation, and frankly, he wants one, too. Yet, he only manages another loud, equally miserable sob in response, and he jerks himself away from her with the attitude of a spoiled child in the middle of a tantrum. Frankly, Lana must be much too tired to deal with this. The day had taken it’s toll on the both of them, and he isn’t exactly helping her keep it together. Though, when they met eyes, he sees nothing but sadness, her amber eyes full of warmth as she runs a comforting hand down his back. “You’re alright. We’re going home.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evaan, fresh from the kolto tank, is taken care of by Koth.

Kolto tanks always remind him of drowning. He’d developed a bit of a fear of dying in such a way, some time after his little excursion to Manaan that nearly resulted in him becoming a permanent aquatic dweller. That’s why, the moment his eyes flickered open, he’d begun to thrash about the tank wildly, nearly scaring the power out of one of the medical droid.  
They’d dried him off, and attempted to give him some instructions for his safety and recovery. He didn’t listen. Evaan shrugs on a robe, holding it shut and storming from the room with a half dozen worried droids wheeling after him. It occurred to him halfway to the cantina that he had no real clue where he was going. It probably would’ve been smart to return to his quarters and put some real clothes on. But that meant confronting Theron’s things.  
His head was spinning. Memories flooded back, nauseating him and only increasing his strange sense of panic and delirium. The man he loved was gone. Evaan couldn’t sense him anymore, not in the way he used to. When he reached out to him, now, he felt nothing but uncertainty. He was out there, somewhere, that much he could tell - but nothing else.  
Throughout the creation of the alliance, Theron kept him sane, and grounded, and loved. At least - he thought he was loved. But now the very person who slept beside him for a year and a half, who soothed him during his night terrors, who kept him tethered to the light and to the galaxy, had tried to kill him.  
Some time before he reached the cantina, the droids trailing at his heels had abandoned him. Likely to go find an organic that could calm his hysteria. Staggering into the room, barefoot and sopping wet, the bar goes dead quiet. He must’ve looked like hell. This would be an interesting tale for his witnesses to tell. The alliance commander, formerly Darth Imperius, a dark councilor, wandering around Odessen in a stupor, dripping kolto and clothed only in shorts and a very wet bathrobe. Even so, humiliation was the least of his worries.  
“Woah, woah, woah! Commander!” Koth’s voice calls out from across the room. He ignores it, simply sliding into a booth and slamming his head down onto the table, his sopping hair obscuring his face. He doesn’t need guests for his pity party, he’s perfectly content to throw one all by himself.  
Footsteps approach, hurried, and then still. He wants them to go away. A hand falls gently between his shoulder blades, shaking him about like until he lifts his head. Blearily, he watches Koth through half lidded eyes, full of tears he finds himself unable to blink away. “C’mon, lets get you some clothes.”  
He doesn’t need clothes, he wants to say, he needs a drink, and a punching bag, and a few hundred hours of meditation to screw his head back on properly. Instead of refusing, though, Evaan just lets his head loll back down onto the table with a pathetic, pained grunt, going completely limp when his companion attempts to gather him up and drag him from his seat. He’s not usually this difficult. In fact, if it weren’t for the day’s events, he may even have been grateful for Koth swooping in to prevent him from acting a fool. No one watching now would believe it, not in the slightest, but he treated his image rather delicately. Respect was hard to maintain, but vital for a man in his position. A handful of days ago, he would’ve never allowed himself to stoop so low. Now, an aching echo in his skull tells him he’s nothing left to lose.  
After a surprisingly long struggle, he’s been yanked to his aching feet, and an arm is slung around his chest - whether to keep him standing or to prevent his escape, Evaan doesn’t know. He doesn’t care to ask. Koth keeps him as steady as possible on their short journey, even as he drags his feet. Their path blurs together, but Evaan recognizes it, still, as he takes it near everyday. They inch closer and closer to his quarters, and as the door comes into view, he stops entirely.  
This is the room he’s called home for a little over a year. For a bit less than that, Theron had called it that too. He still had his own quarters, yet, his items had slowly begun to gravitate into Evaan’s, the longer they’d been together. And then he gravitated there, too. It was bliss while it lasted - but now, considering being forced to look at the remnants of their domesticity makes him feel sick.  
“I can’t,” He croaks weakly, shooting Koth the saddest, puppy dog frown a republic war criminal can possibly muster, “I can’t go in there. Please don’t make me.”  
He can see Koth processing his request, contemplating what he should do. His expression shifts to one of guilt and resignation as he maneuvers Evaan’s hand to the touchpad and presses his palm to it to open the door, ushering him inside. “I’m sorry, Lana will kill me if I let you keep wandering the halls like this,” Koth mutters, glancing around the room.  
It was exactly as he left it. As they left it. The bedsheets are mussed, a porcelain teacup with only a sip left of green tea now dried to the bottom left abandoned on Evaan’s bedside table, a nearly full whiskey glass beside it. The desk is cluttered, both with his own and Theron’s work, and the realization that he may never again see Theron hunched over that desk, datapad in hand and face scrunched up into a frustrated scowl, draws a sob from his throat. Everything here brings back memories. Everything hurts.  
He remembers the nights they’ve spent intertwined together on that bed, five fingers wound through his lover’s hair as the other man runs his thumbs over the sharp black tattoos on the back of his other hand. He remembers waking to the dim light of Theron’s datapad glowing across the room, where he finds him hovering beside their desk, eyelids drooped with sleepiness, and Evaan can practically hear the soft grunt Theron always makes when he approaches and wraps his arms around him, nudging his face into his back and dragging him back to bed. He remembers all the sleepless nights spent curled up on the sofa together, when the both of them were too restless to sleep, so they just sat side by side while Evaan meditated and Theron worked, a comfortable silence spanning the room.  
Now all of those spots are empty. And it hurts. More than he can explain. More than he can handle. This room is filled with ghosts. And they’re his alone to face.


	4. Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sleep is ever elusive for the commander, and nightmares are far too common.

He hasn’t slept. Not in his own quarters, at least. It’s been nearly two and a half days. Evaan’s spent almost the entirety of those days burying himself in as many assignments as he can handle without letting the last bits of composure he has left slip from his grasp. Lana has had to pry datapads from his calloused palms more than once. Judging solely by the way his other advisors reacted to his incessant offerings of assistance - they’d all found ways to brush him off or offer work that wasn’t truly work, like Sana-Rae’s suggestion of meditating with her students - he’s been left to assume that Lana had warned them of his instability, as well. Though, in complete fairness, he’s more than aware that he makes his struggles rather obvious all on his own.  
Dark, puffy circles ring his eyes at all times, tinging his deep green skin a dull teal. It looks as if an orobird hatchling has burrowed itself into his hair, but he simply can’t bring himself to brush it. His posture is absolutely horrific, so much so his back practically creaks with each breath. These are all things he could fix, oh so easily. Yet, when he thinks to, something overcomes him. A loud, yet placid voice, much too similar to the plethora of spirits he’d once hosted in there. It’s ever present, but not violent. It lulls him into complacency, convinces him effortlessly that it isn’t worth trying. It’s hypnotic. He doesn’t care to fight it, so he simply lets it be. And as he does, he lets himself go.  
When he isn’t trying to weasel his way into their work - be it searching for signs of Theron, or going over requests for aid or alliance, or managing their shipments and orders - he’s in the cantina. In truth, alcohol wasn’t something he was ever particularly fond of. It always seems to taste rancid. Even the sweetest of wines feels foul on his tongue, as it stirs faint memories of his life before Korriban. The aroma alone reminds him of the drunken tirades of his various masters, and the feel of alcohol on his taste buds bring back things that nauseated him just to think of.  
So, he doesn’t partake. He plops down in one of the abandoned booths, in an empty side room, if he’s lucky, and listens. Listens to the hum of activity around him, tries to feel the force shifting and easing throughout each body. More often than not, his focus slips. Still, the attempts are a welcome distraction from the anxiety that plagues him.  
Any sleep Evaan has gotten these last few nights has been in one of these booths. Drifting in and out of wakefulness, his sleep has been completely restless, and hounded by nightmares. In all of those dreams, he’s with Theron. In some, he relives the betrayal, the sharp sting of flames lapping at his skin until the phantom pains grow strong enough to awake him.  
In others, it almost seems serene - just the two of them, separated by a vast river, seeming to span an endless distance. Time slows, and he hears nothing but a deafening ringing in his eardrum, and when Theron’s gaze meets his, it’s truly him. It’s sharp, full of guilt and conviction. Just like the look he’d given him from the other side of the forcefield, as he says his goodbyes. In these dreams, Evaan would run to him. He’d try his damnedest, sinking waist deep into the water and fighting the violent current, despite the terror it brings him. The sand of the riverbed always caves in beneath his feet, and as his love watches, he sinks. He wakes from it, always, with the feeling of water in his throat and a fire in his lungs.  
But the worst, by far - in some dreams, they aren’t alone. Far from it. They’re surrounded by alliance forces, Theron flanked by beings cloaked in shadow. And then their armies collide, until all that’s left is a decimated, smoking field of corpses, with Theron knelt before him, face caked in grime and blood. The man speaks, but Evaan hears nothing, only makes out the shape of the words on his lips. _Please._ Even without hearing his plea, it resonates through his core, reeking of desperation and regret. He feels bad. He _wants_ to feel bad, and he can think of no alternative to helping him to his feet and bringing him home. But he doesn’t. Instead, his lightsaber ignites, the noise abruptly cutting through the silence. His hands move involuntarily and before he even knows what he’s done, Theron’s head topples to the floor, and there is nothing left in his heart but a profound feeling of emptiness. From these visions, he lurches awake, drawing in a heavy gasp and scrambling for some semblance of self control. These visions make him feel sick, and dirty, and more than anything - helpless.


	5. Support

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lana takes care of her hopelessly reckless friend.

“I’m taking you back to your quarters,” Lana says, looping her arms underneath his armpits and pulling him to his feet. He stumbles, eyes blinking blearily in the bright cantina lights, and she steadies him, letting her palms rest on his shoulders and offering a sympathetic look. The concern in her eyes is what makes him realize just how horrendous he must appear.  
“Anywhere but there,” Evaan moans in response. He almost hopes she’ll take pity on him, abandon him to sulk until the booth opens up and swallows him whole. He has no such luck.  
Tenderly, she takes hold of his waist, escorting him towards the exit. “You need rest.” Sleep is anything but rest now. Rest is ever elusive, hanging mere inches from his reach, taunting and tantalizing. “When’s the last time you slept?”  
“A few minutes ago.”  
“In a bed.”  
This time, he stays silent. He hears a faint sigh escape her mouth as she steers him towards the elevator. Lana stubbornly attempts to nudge him into the narrow hallway before the lift, but he digs his heels down and scrambles for some purchase on the wall, until his hands lock around the corner, and he attempts to tear himself from the all too overwhelmed woman’s arms. He considers, briefly, how absolutely pitiful and downright ridiculous this exchange must appear to any onlookers. Even if it is hard to maintain, he’s completely aware he needs to hold onto some semblance of dignity. For the first time in quite a while, he’s acutely aware of how vulnerable he is - and how little affection this display would garner from the masses. The alliance commander, throwing a temper tantrum over a lost asset. Asset, he reminds himself painfully. Theron is an asset. With that in mind, his grip goes slack, and he straightens up.  
Lana lets him loose, eyeing the man carefully as he smooths the wrinkles from his clothing and offers her a pleading look, “I don’t want to sleep there.”  
In truth, he expects her to grab him by the arm and pull him kicking and screaming to the elevator like a frustrated mother to a toddler, all the way back to the now desolate room that had been his chambers. While she was a kind person, regardless of outward appearances, her kindness had a tendency of manifesting in a subtle sort of tough love. She would do what was best for those she cared for, even if they themselves weren’t too keen on the idea. Confronting the lingering ghosts in his chambers is certainly the best option, it must be. Yet, she doesn’t fight him this time. Instead, she puts an arm around his shoulders - gingerly, to avoid aggravating the lingering pain from the ordeal on Umbara - and swivels him around to head towards the private quarters of some of their higher ranking officials. His jaw all but drops. “Where are we going?” He inquires, stumbling beside her.  
“My suite,” Lana explains. An apology dies on his tongue. Guilt swarms him, for the way he’s treated his dearest friend, as she tried to pick up the pieces of his dignity that he tore to shreds. If he apologizes, she’ll say it’s alright, and he can’t have that. Deep down, he knows it’s anything but. She deserves better. He needs to be it. And so they walk the rest of the way in silence.  
Evaan has never seen her room. It’s ever so slightly smaller than his own, and neat. There’s not much remarkable about it, and it’s so pristine he finds himself wondering just how often she stays in it. He’s emerged from his own quarters to find her in the war room late into the night on multiple occasions, though he’s never known how common of an occurrence that is. Her chambers are practically spotless, all of her possessions precisely organized, as if she never really touches them at all.  
She eases him towards the bed, which is perfectly made up with grey killik silk sheets and immaculately fluffed pillows. The moment he lies down, his body seems to give in to his exhaustion, sinking down into the mattress as if it was sand. “Get some rest.” While she sounds stern, he can sense her concern, and there’s a slight, sorrowful gleam in her eyes that betrays her calm facade. She hesitates to move from his side, her hand lingering in front of him like she expects him to take it. Like she wants him to take it.  
Meekly, he reaches up one hand to clasp hers, gazing up at the sad, tired woman hovering by the bedside with half lidded eyes and giving her the best smile he can possibly manage. Although hesitantly, she returns it, and lowers herself down to sit on the very edge of the bed. “You can stay as long as you like. As long as you need,” The sith offers gently. Her hand slips from his and inches towards his head, stopping just short of his hair and meeting his eyes, wordlessly asking permission to touch him. His youth had left him rather wary of being touched in any manner that wasn’t absolutely necessary or completely formal, and though he’d told her before he trusted her enough that she no longer needed to ask, she still did. It was a thoughtful gesture - one that always warmed his heart.  
He nods. “Thank you.” Her fingers brush at his hair, and he lets his eyelids flutter shut. It’s hard to tell just how long it takes him to doze off, or exactly when Lana leaves, but for the first time in days, he falls asleep at peace.


	6. Sparring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief sparring match between friends.

Sweat beads on his forehead and soaks into the tape wrapped around his fists. Lana’s swings are ruthless, unending. He’s sparred with her on occasion, and afterwards he always leaves feeling as if she’s dragged him across the ground and used him as a lightning conduction rod. It’s a sobering experience, if nothing else. It keeps him on his toes.  
Her free hand lurches out, and he raises his arm in defense of his face, only to realize how terrible a move that was when her fingers lock around his wrist and send a current of electricity through his muscles. He jolts, gritting his teeth and ducking out of her grasp.  
They travel across the grass of the empty landing zone, Lana pursuing him as if they’re playing cat and mouse, keeping him on the defensive. A sharp pain arcs through his left foot as a rock jabs through his skin, and he staggers, losing his balance and falling back with all the grace of a drunken monkey-lizard. He barely has time to react before Lana is descending upon him, reaching for his arms once more to subdue him and claim victory for herself.  
Without thinking, he grabs onto her’s instead. Lightning courses through his palms and into her forearms, and she freezes, a shudder running down her spine. It’s a reflex he’s long forgotten he had. It’s an ability he’s tried to forget, to erase as he strayed further from the teachings of the sith. He’d still use it, occasionally, only when in serious pain or distress, when his restraint slips far enough to dredge up old habits. He feels his restraint slipping, now.  
Still, he takes advantage of his lapse. Evaan rolls over, dragging her with him and pinning the woman to the dirt without a second of hesitation. The both of them are drenched in sweat, and smell rather atrocious. His chest heaves as he catches his breath and clambers off of her, plopping down beside her and sprawling his limbs out. They’re both silent.  
“Well,” Lana rasps eventually, rubbing at the imprints of his fingers in her skin, “I see you’re back to your old tricks.”  
He swallows the unease in his throat and responds, voice firm, “Yes. I suppose I am.”


	7. Counsel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A late night talk with Senya Tirall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last thing I had written. If anyone reads this far and wants more, maybe I’ll add more. For now this is it

A soft voice stirs him from his thoughts as he paces before the war rooms projector, arms hugged tightly around himself. “Up late, I see,” Senya says, coolly, and he comes to an abrupt stop.  
“And so are you.” Evaan gives her a brief, tense smile, fumbling with his robes and pulling them tighter. Even so late at night, it’s rare to find the base unoccupied. He’s certainly not the only one to wander it’s halls after hours - but he hasn’t seen Senya here before.  
Even now, clothed in simple white pajamas rather than her usual battle-worn armor, she gives off an aura of calm and radiance. Not a single hair is out of place in her tightly wound bun. Even so, she looks tired.  
The silence between them is strained, but she makes no effort to remedy it. Maybe he’s the only one who feels the discomfort. “What are you doing here?” The question was far more accusatory than he’d intended it to be. She was unbothered.  
“The same as you, I suspect.” Her laugh chimes through the air, light, and steady, her teeth peeking through her smile as she stares forward, eyes seemingly focused on something far into the distance. “Running from sleep.”  
“Mm, fair guess,” The sith responds softly.  
It wasn’t sleep he was avoiding. It was the empty side of his bed, now that he’d attempted to confront it. It was the night terrors. It was the sorrow that had settled itself in his chambers, made a home among the emptiness.  
Slowly, she looks to him, and their eyes lock. There’s understanding in her gaze, unexpectedly. She’d told him over a year ago that she carried herself in two different manners, that the woman she became while on duty was separate than the one she was at home. He’d felt the same, once.  
After settling down on the throne, he and Senya hadn’t spoken much. His guilt over Vaylin weighed him down whenever she met his eyes, and her grief likely stifled their conversations just as much. Before that, her presence had always been a comfort, and she held a warmth that his own mother never had. In a way, he’d begun to view her as such. That’s why, when she offers him that same, patient smile, he breaks.  
“I’m slipping,” He croaks, slouching forward and bowing his head, “I can’t do this anymore. Not now.”  
He feels her hand brush between his shoulder blades, and he can’t help but flinch, but she doesn’t falter. With her palm rubbing soothing circles into his back, he calms once more, taking in a long, unsteady breath. “You’re strong,” Senya says. It isn’t a compliment, or even reassurance. It’s a reminder.  
“Enough for this?”  
“Yes,” She responds quickly. Her certainty is unnerving. But then again - it’s sweet to know someone has faith in him. He needs it.


End file.
